world hunger

Bro, What If…

By Jacob Austin

“Bro, what if…” as an incantation.
“Bro, what if…” as the esoteric inversion of the first three words of Genesis 1:1.
“Bro, what if…” as the sacred utterance of an unnamed bedroom religion which has brought to life innumerable pocket universes, woven into being by minds opened to wonder
through the convergence of the four elements down here in Malkuth, where dirty bong water, a crushed and reeking plant, a gas station Bic, and the rasping lungs of a teenager open the magical movement from the pit to eternity.
“Bro, what if…” the high priests whisper to one another at the brink of a vision which
must be shared at its very breaking lest it return to its occluded realm unspoken and thus
forgotten.
“Bro, what if…” the visionary speaks with some degree of panic, feeling about himself in the dark, searching for reaching hands before the surf carries him away alone.
“Bro, what if…” the pull is becoming too powerful now and cannot be held back any
longer. The priest’s eyes, red and desperate in the smoky room, jump about, from one face to
another. Is anyone here with him, does anyone understand him, is he truly so utterly alone?
“B…b…bro…?” he asks one last time before disappearing down the dark tunnel opening
beneath his feet. The clasp of another’s hand, the promise of shared experience, the birth of a disciple. He will not fall through the dark on his own.
“Bro, what if, like, everyone just woke up tomorrow and said, like, Fuck yoouuu to their
bosses. Just like that. Fuck yoouuu to the government and the military and whatever, and we all just started doing our own thing? Like, you know, who really says things have to be this way? You know, like, it’s just shit that, it’s just like shit, like, all our grandpas made it up. It’s just, like…shit, you know?”
“Bro…” as affirmation.
“Bro…” as acknowledgement of a shared visionary experience.
“Bro…” as the only word that can be mustered as a new world populates the imaginary realm, an anarchist utopia that expands quickly, a warm bubble that encompasses all of the
clergymen there gathered, so that it is like they are there, and in a way they are, for so-called
reality is not a universal, but merely a shared emanation, one that requires some buy in, although this is usually purchased when quite young and not yet conscious of the transaction.
Within the larger lifeworld, smaller reality bubbles form and pop all the time. The bubble of the mystic brothers of Bro is currently inflating. Some of those gathered add their own ideas to the mix. Others elect to simply bask in the woven dream, contributing nothing more than the odd “bro…”, which equates, in this instance, to Lord Hear Our Prayers.
The song on the bluetooth speaker ends and the next begins. The vibes of the room shift. Just like that, as quickly as it had expanded to occupy the entire mentalscape of its attendees, the vision begins to fade. It may have been felt with the power equivalent to one of William James’ religious experiences, but now it withers. It is best forgotten completely, as is often the case. When such insights insist on lingering beyond the length of the ritual, they take on an embarrassing, empty, or even asinine quality that had been completely absent in its original conception. For this reason, the multitudinous sects of the church of Bro emphasize the experiential side of religion rather than the dogmatic.
If one requires a comparison, look to the Quaker’s unprogrammed worship. There is no grand sermon, no specific schedule, no leader. Let those gathered simply sit and feel the space they are in, and listen for the voice of God. He who is moved, let him speak.
“Bro, what if…”
It is understood that each subsequent word tarnishes the original vision further. It’s
unavoidable. That is the reality of emanation. The transmission of the spoken words into the ears and minds of the other acolytes sullies the primary vision even more, so that the original holy kernel who imparted the vision is not touched at all. Those below only breathe in its exhaust fumes, and so delude themselves into an understanding of the divine.
“Bro, what if this is all just a simulation?”
“Bro, what if it is a test and we are meant to break free?”
“Bro, what if we are the only ones who haven’t passed it yet and everyone else is out
there in the pleroma watching us take all this made up stupid shit so seriously?”
“Bro…”
“Bro, what if…”
The incantation is spoken in cars and basements, bedrooms and hidden places in nature. It has brought into being uncounted pocket universes, woven into existence by forgetful and absent gods. Universes who whirl on long after their basic codes have been laid out. The multiverse of what ifs, forgotten by visionaries and bros alike, begetting its own visionaries with their own bros spinning forth their own worlds, so that it is “Bro, what if” all the way down, each bro dreaming, each of them creating, each of them beyond reach of any prayer besides “Bro, what if…” and its infinite response: “Bro…”

Jacob Austin lives and writes in Texas. Find more of him at gnosticpulp.substack.com and linktree.com/jacobaustin.